


for a good time, call...

by lotts (LottieAnna)



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Audio Format: MP3, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Phone Sex Operators, Podfic, Podfic & Podficced Works, Podfic Length: 1.5-2 Hours
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-05-09 23:09:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14725394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LottieAnna/pseuds/lotts
Summary: “Let’s say I play my cards right,” Dylan says. “Should we try to get hired by a company? Won’t they take a cut?”“Well, how else will you build up a client base?”“I mean,” Dylan says, “how do the companies do it? Just get one of those snappy numbers, right? Like, 1-800-Eat Ass, or whatever.”(Or:How to Set Up a Phone Sex Hotline while Avoiding and/or Dealing with your Feelings: A Guide,by Dylan Strome & co.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [stonesnuggler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonesnuggler/pseuds/stonesnuggler) in the [PuckingRare2018](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/PuckingRare2018) collection. 



> IF YOU FOUND THIS THROUGH GOOGLING, KNOW ANYONE MENTIONED IN THIS STORY PERSONALLY, OR ARE MENTIONED YOURSELF: please, please click away. This is a work of fiction and nothing written in this story is true. Any accurate information used in this story is publicly available information about public figures, the rest is made up, 100%.
> 
> This prompt was nothing short of BRILLIANT. I rewatched "For A Good Time Call" like twice in preparation for this, and I didn't really pull that much on the plot of that film but it's Very Important. Also I stole the name because it's just. Too good. For a fun cute story about phone sex operators.

Like most of their greatest ideas, this one comes from a drunk basement brainstorming session in late May. 

Well, technically, by the time the idea comes around, the brainstorming part is over, and they’ve mostly moved on to fucking with Matty and Ryan, but still, trying to figure out how the fuck they’re gonna make enough money to fund the most baller end-of-summer ball hockey tournament and 72-hour dayger/rager in the history of Lorne Park is on their minds. 

So, like, they’re making exaggerated fake sex noises, and then Mikey’s like, “Dude, we’re really good at this.” 

Dylan blinks. “At what, grunting?” 

“Yeah,” Mikey says. “Can we make money off of this?” 

“How?” 

“Phone sex,” Mikey says, like that should’ve been obvious, somehow. 

“Do people still pay for phone sex?” 

“Probably.” 

“How do we get them to pay us?” 

Mikey shrugs. “I dunno, we ask for money.”

“That’s not how money works,” Dylan says. 

“Well, do you have any better ideas?” 

And Dylan does not, so he just shrugs, and the two of them go back to making fake sex noises, because pissing off their little brothers is a time-honored tradition of theirs. 

***

Dylan doesn’t exactly ask Mat Barzal for advice. It’s more like, Dylan casually says “Mikey said something about making money off of phone sex,” and Mat just kind of rolls with it. 

This is probably something Dylan should have anticipated. Econ majors are kind of like that. 

“Dude, I just did a project on this,” Mat says, because of course he has. As far as Dylan can tell, all Mat does is make PowerPoint presentations on strange, frat-inspired business ideas. Dylan’s pretty sure it’s not even for class, half the time; at least, Dylan can’t imagine a professor who would design an assignment that would allow Mat to model a fictional cannabis bakery. And like, Dylan’s an English major, half his professors would gladly patronize that hypothetical business. They certainly wouldn’t be forgiving when grading an assignment centered around it, unfortunately. 

“Well, what were your findings?” 

“You need a landline,” Mat says. “For a reliable connection, obviously, and most of the big companies require one anyway—” 

“What if I don’t wanna work for a company?” Dylan asks. “Can I just, like, install a landline at my house?”

“Well, how serious are you?” 

Dylan shrugs, noncommittal. “I dunno, how much money could it make me?” 

“More than you need, if you play your cards right,” Mat says. 

“Let’s say I play my cards right, then,” Dylan says. “Should we try to get hired by a company? Won’t they take a cut?” 

“Well, how else will you build up a client base?” 

“I mean,” Dylan says, “how do the companies do it? Just get one of those snappy numbers, right? Like, 1-800-Eat Ass, or whatever.” 

“I think you’re one letter short on that,” Mat points out. 

“Add an ‘s’,” Dylan says absently. “Or maybe just 420-6969.” 

“You’d get a lot of prank calls.”

“I mean, yeah, but we hit ‘em with a price list right off the bat and they’ll hang up if they’re not serious,” Dylan says. “Plus, we might get a few serious callers who just dial it as a shot in the dark. Maybe we can advertise on a bathroom stall somewhere, y’know? The OG viral marketing strategy.” 

“You’re— not wrong?” Mat says. “But you can’t just set up a landline in you parents’ house.” 

“They never come down to the basement,” Dylan points out. 

“Sure, but the phone itself,” Mat says. “Don’t they connect to the phone lines? She’d know you were setting it up.” 

Dylan furrows his brow. “There’s gotta be some workaround to that.” 

Mat shrugs. “I mean, I’m not a business partner, I dunno.” 

“You wanna be?” 

“What, like, on the lines?” Mat says. “I’m not sure about that.” 

Dylan has a brief flash of,  _ oh, yeah, a blowie sounds sick, eh?  _ and decides right then and there that Mat Barzal should never, ever, be a phone sex operator, ever, in his entire life. 

“I was thinking more on the financial side of things,” Dylan says. 

Mat considers it, then nods, like,  _ why not.  _ “Yeah, alright, you and McLeod won’t make any money if you try and do it yourself.” 

“Sweet,” Dylan says. “Do you know how to set up a landline?” 

“I can ask around,” Mat says. “But is there a venue? I have roommates, you and McLeod live at home and have, like, eleven siblings each.” 

“Two,” Dylan corrects. “And I only have one who—” he cuts himself off, his eyes going wide. “Wait.” 

“Yeah?” Mat says. 

“A location,” Dylan says. “I think I have one.” 

Mat raises his eyebrows. “Really.” 

“Yeah, I’ll let you know after I’ve made a few… business calls.” Then, he feels the need to add, “Like, real business calls. Not sex-business calls—” 

“No, yeah, I got that,” Mat says. 

“Just checking,” Dylan says, and Mat rolls his eyes.

***

“What do you want, Dyl,” Ryan says when he picks up the phone. 

“Not even a hello? Rude, bro,” Dylan says, not actually offended, because it’s not like Ryan’s wrong. 

“Hello,” Ryan says. “You called without texting first, that means you’re trying to convince me of something and wanted to catch me off guard.” 

“Who do you think I am, some kind of… schemer? Do you really think I’m scheming, Ry?” 

“I think you’re my brother,” Ryan says, and he still sounds wary, but also fond, which means they both know Dylan has Ryan exactly where he wants him. “You’re always scheming. I know how you operate, Dyl.” 

“And how’s that?” 

“Any calls after dinner are to talk, anything during the day is business,” Ryan says. “So, what’s the business?”

“I was just thinking about your apartment—” 

“No,” Ryan says quickly.

“I didn’t even finish!” 

“I’m not letting you throw a party, Dyl—”

“Can you calm down? That’s not what I was gonna ask,” Dylan says. “I’m asking for… office space.” 

“You mean, like, the movie?” 

“No, dumbass, the— the thing,” Dylan says. “I have a summer business plan, and I was hoping I could run it out of your place.” 

“And not the basement,” Ryan says.

“Yeah, it’s not the kind of business you can run out of your parents’ basement,” Dylan says. “I just need a place with a little more freedom, to engage in more… mature activities.” 

“Okay, that sounds gross, and also sketchy as  _ fuck—” _

“No, I didn’t mean— I won’t  _ do  _ anything in your apartment,” Dylan says. “I might just—” he cuts himself off, because the fewer details Ryan knows, the better. “Mikey and I had an idea for how to make some money, totally safe, just for the summer—” 

He’s cut off when someone walks into his bedroom, and when he looks up, he sees that it’s Mikey, accompanied by Nate and the younger, McLeodier Ryan. 

“Speak of the devil,” Dylan says, then gestures to Mikey to come over and mouths,  _ it’s Ryan.  _ Mikey points at Other Ryan, which is a lame joke that gets Dylan and Other Ryan to both roll their eyes,  but earns a laugh from Bastian. 

“Did McLeod just walk in?” 

“McLeods, plural,” Dylan says, eyeing the group. “Three of them.” 

“Matt too?” 

“Nah, Bastian.” 

“So, two and a half.” 

“No, you can’t have half a person, we’ve been over this— I’m putting Mikey on the line, and he’s gonna convince you to let us run a sick business out of your apartment.” He looks at Mikey on the last part, to make sure they’re all on the same page, and Mikey seems to get it, because of course he does. Mikey and Dylan tend to be on the same wavelength more often than not.

“Dude, you can’t McLeod a Strome,” Ryan says. 

“Watch me,” Dylan says, and then he thrusts the phone at Mikey, who fumbles it for a second before putting it to his ear expertly. Absently, Dylan thinks they should probably get Bluetooth earpiece thingies, if they’re gonna do this phone sex thing; Mikey would probably look hilariously professional.

“Hello?” Mikey says, and then he laughs the same way he does when he’s making fun of Mat and Taylor and Mitchell when they get too business-econ-Wolf-of-Wall-Street-Goldman-Sachs-y. “Ryan, my man, how’s my second favorite Strome?” 

“Looks like you’ve been demoted,” Nate says, nudging Dylan, and Dylan rolls his eyes as Mikey does his fake negotiator laugh again. 

“He means after Oscar,” Dylan says, at the same time Mikey says, “No, I meant after Oscar, obviously.”

For some reason, Ryan McLeod decides that that’s the funniest thing in the world, and Mikey glares at him before he walks out of the room, giving Ryan the finger as he says, “So, we’re still working on a pitch presentation…” 

Dylan’s eyes linger for a second, and he feels this kind of dumb, fond half-grin on his face, but he doesn’t realize he’s straight-up staring at the doorway until Ryan snaps his fingers. “Earth to Dylan?” 

Dylan blinks, then turns, trying to hide a blush. “What?” 

“If Oscar’s first, and Big Ryan’s second, does that make you the third favorite Strome?” Nate says, interrupting whatever Ryan was going to say. 

“Huh? No, it goes Oscar, because he’s a dog, Trish and Chris, because they supply the food, then Matty and Ry are usually tied, then I’m last, because of the whole thing where we’re parallel universe versions of each other.” 

Ryan looks at Dylan like he’s trying to figure out if he’s being serious. “The whole thing where you’re… what?”

Dylan waves him off. “It’s a middle child thing, you wouldn’t understand.” 

“You can’t just use that as an excuse every time Mikey’s fucking weird,” Ryan says. 

“Mikey’s always pretty weird,” Nate points out, not unkindly. “So does that mean Mikey’s your least favorite McLeod?” 

Dylan nods. “It goes, whatever cat we’re on now, Judi, Rich, the rest of you—” he points at Nate. “You’re included in this, no matter what the real Ryan says—” 

“Fuck you, I’m a real Ryan,” Ryan says, indignant.

“You’re my older brother’s mini-me,” Dylan says. “This isn’t an argument you’re gonna win, and you know it.”

“I’m confused, does Ryan  _ Strome  _ not count me as part of the family, or does fake little Ryan here not?” Nate throws an arm around Ryan, who quickly pushes him off. No one is surprised by this.

“Fake little— you could’ve just said Ryan McLeod,” Ryan protests. “For the record, Dylan’s talking about his brother, but you shouldn’t be an asshole to me if you wanna hold onto your McLeod status.” 

“Don’t listen to him,” Mikey says, walking back into the room. He tosses Dylan the phone, and Dylan catches it easily. “Real McLeods mock their young, it’s a time-honored tradition.” 

“So I am a real McLeod,” Nate says. “Just to be clear.” 

“Duh,” Mikey says. “If anything, Ryan Strome’s not a real Strome.” 

“Why?” Ryan asks. 

Mikey gives Ryan a pleased shrug, then turns to Dylan. “I McLeoded him.” 

Dylan perks up. “You mean—”

“We’ve got a space.” Mikey’s arms are open, and he’s gearing up for a hug already as Dylan launches himself into his arms. 

“Dude,” Dylan says, standing on his toes, because he’s only an inch taller than Mikey and wants to tuck his face into Mikey’s hair, because it smells, like, really fucking nice. “We’re actually doing this.” 

“Fuck yeah, bros to business partners,” Mikey says, his breath warm against Dylan’s neck, and Dylan could drown in this moment, honestly. 

No lame jobs, no annoying hourly wages or early mornings— just a summer, with his best friend, and it’s gonna be a sick story to tell people some day, honestly, and the money’s gonna be fucking insane. 

And like, the thing about Mikey is, they already live in different dorms during the year, and have different majors, and it’s not like Dylan doesn’t see him at all, exactly, but the past few years have felt— not quite distant, but like a distance is growing. 

Which is totally just a part of growing up, but still. Dylan likes Mikey a lot, and maybe it’s strange to think about how much you miss a guy when you go to the same college and live in the same city when you’re not at college and have never had to go more than a few weeks without seeing and are currently hugging, but— 

Whatever. The point is, time with Mikey is like rainbow sprinkles at a self-serve sundae bar: there’s no such thing as too much, so Dylan keeps piling it on to his heart’s content and ignores the judgmental looks people give him. 

“Alright, let’s open this up to the floor,” Mikey says, and then they break apart and allow a cheerful Nate and reluctant Ryan to join, but Dylan doesn’t let Mikey leave his side. Nate’s aware of the whole plan and, for whatever reason, has an abundance of knowledge about landline telephones that he can’t account for, so he’s kind of a part of this; Ryan’s Mikey’s brother, so it’s mutually been agreed upon that he’s not going anywhere near the phone sex part of this with a ten foot pole, but Dylan can tell that he’s just happy they’re happy; so really, this is Dylan and Mikey’s celebration. 

And, like. This is Dylan and Mikey’s  _ summer,  _ which is true about every summer, but there’s a reason for that. Dylan-and-Mikey summers are great, so of course Dylan’s fucking psyched. 

***

The setup part passes in a whirlwind. Mat yells at them a lot, which is expected, and Dylan yells back when he can tell it went too far, because Mikey’s only a year younger than them, but he’s weirdly shy around people he considers Dylan’s friends, sometimes, even if he never acts like it. Nate helps them set up a landline, and after much debate with Mikey and Dylan and Mat about what the number should be, ends up agreeing with Dylan that 420-6969 is, in fact, a better option than 1-800-SUCK-YOU (“It sounds too much like ‘you suck’”), 1-800-EAT-DICK (“That’s not what you… do?”), 555-COCK (“Totally uninspired!” “You want your phone sex number to be inspired?” “Yes.” “Absolutely.”), and even the closest contender, even if it will always be, in Dylan’s heart, a classic. (“Ass is a three-letter word. It just— I love it, but it looks wrong.”) 

Their first official day on the job consists of Mikey on Ryan’s couch, and Dylan on Ryan’s unused-since-he-unofficially-moved-in-with-his-boyfriend bed, and it’s weird, because, like— in all the work that went into setting up a phone sex hotline, no matter how many innuendos and bad puns they used, ironically and unironically, it never really hit Dylan that he was gonna have phone sex with strangers. 

And like. They’ve got Nate filtering the calls, and Barzy had thought to take care of permits, or whatever, but no one ever made Dylan, like, practice his phone sex skills, He’s pretty sure his job is just to say ‘yes’ and ‘I like that’ in a breathy voice, and he knows it’s all gonna be anonymous, but it’s still— there’s something less cute-and-zany about this part, and more… nerve-wracking. 

He kind of wishes Mikey were here. He’s just in the next room, but like, he’s not here-here. Next to Dylan, touching him or looking at him or saying words so Dylan could hear the sound of his voice, because it’s comforting. 

There’s too much unfamiliar territory at once, and Dylan’s on the verge of freaking out when the phone rings, a weirdly old-fashioned, undigital sound. 

He doesn’t have time to gather himself before he picks up the phone, so he just gulps and hopes for the best. “Hey, there,” he says, trying to sound casual and not like a bad Marilyn Monroe impression about to have a panic attack. 

“Hey, it’s me, Bastian knows the deal,” a familiar voice says on the other end, and Dylan is immediately flooded with relief. 

“Marns?” Dylan says. “You know this is—” 

“A real professional endeavor, blah blah blah, I’m not here to make fun,” Mitch says. “Consider this a warmup call.” 

“What?” 

“Yeah,” Mitch says. “Talk dirty to me, big boy.” 

“What are you— does your boyfriend know you’re doing this?” 

There’s some rustling, and then Dylan hears Auston Matthews’ voice say, “Happy first day at the new job.” 

“Thanks,” Dylan says, and this whole thing feels fucking surreal. He’d told a handful of people, and he trusts them not to blab, but he doesn’t know why Mitch would be calling. 

He doesn’t exactly feel ready to start taking real customers, though, so he’s not gonna look a gift horse in the mouth. 

“Anyway, I’m here to give you a crash course in phone sex,” Mitch says. “You ready to start?” 

“How are you qualified for this?” 

“Two consecutive summers spent in a long distance relationship,” Mitch says easily. “Not all of us fall in love with the boy next door then have them follow us to college, you know.” 

“I didn’t— shut up,” Dylan says, flustered. “I could talk to a paying customer.”

“I am a paying customer,” Mitch says. “Anyway, I’m just here to make sure you’re not freaking out. It’s just a conversation, okay?”

“It’s phone sex.” 

“It’s their job to make it sexual,” Mitch says. “Just sit and listen, let them tell you what they want. You can fill an awkward silence with the best of them, so as long as you don’t talk too fast, you’ll be fine.” 

“Hey,” Dylan says, offended. “I don’t do that on the phone.” 

“Eh,” Mitch says. “You do. It’s part of your charm, just make sure they understand you.” 

Dylan lies back and throws an arm over his face. “Is it dumb that I’m worried about Mikey?” 

“You’re always worried about Mikey,” Mitch says. “He’s a grown-ass adult, and if you don’t think he’s also getting a pep talk from a friend right now, you are sorely mistaken.” 

That thought makes Dylan feel better, for a number of reasons, several of which he is decidedly not going to think about. “Okay.” 

“Also, dude? It’s your first day as a phone sex hotline, your clientele is limited, you’re probably only gonna have one or two calls.” 

“But after that first real call, word of mouth is totally gonna take off. The phone’s gonna be ringing off the fucking hook.”  

Mitch snorts. “No matter how good you are, I don’t know how many people swap numbers to call for a good time with their friends.” 

“Yet,” Dylan says, and he’s feeling a lot more normal now than he was a few minutes ago. 

He still wishes Mikey was here, but talking to Mitch is fun, and he does have a few actual phone sex tips beyond general advice, and afterwards, Dylan hangs up and feels ready for a real call. 

And then, there’s, like, half an hour of waiting, and Dylan plays a lot of Candy Crush, and he almost misses it the next time the phone rings, because he forgets, temporarily, but then he remembers and scrambles to pick up. 

“Hello there,” he says, naturally out of breath, but he manages to smooth it into something resembling sexy, he thinks, and more importantly, he doesn’t freak out once, even when it’s not a familiar voice on the other end. 

And it’s— 

Fine, he thinks. 

The guy is 22, a student, between relationships, and, in his words, “feeling lonely enough to call a phone sex hotline a friend of a friend recommended to him and if this is all a prank please hang up now because—”  

So, in other words, he’s nervous, and Dylan can work with that. 

“It’s not a prank,” Dylan says, his voice low and easy. “We’re here to make you feel good, okay?” 

“Okay,” the guy says, still wary. “It’s just— I’m really fucking horny? And porn just fucking sucks, and I wanted to try something new. I don’t know, this is stupid—” 

“It’s not stupid,” Dylan says. “People get lonely. They want to hear someone’s voice.” 

“But you’re not actually here. You don’t even know who I am,” the guy says. 

“That’s true,” Dylan says. “But I am a person. You’re talking to me.”

“I guess, but— I don’t even know how to do this. I’ve never had phone sex before.”

“Phone sex is like any other sex,” Dylan says. “There’s no right or wrong way to do it. Whatever you feel comfortable with.” 

“But am I supposed to pretend that we’re, like, having sex?” 

“We can,” Dylan says. “Is that what you want?” 

There’s a beat of silence on the other end, like the guy is thinking. “I… kind of just wanna jerk off, honestly.” 

“Then you can do that,” Dylan says. “Do you want to talk to me while you jerk off?” 

“Uh, I… guess?” 

“You guess,” Dylan says. “What’s the uncertainty?”

“I would— I’d kind of prefer it if you did most of the talking,” the guy says. “Is that, like, okay?” 

“Of course,” Dylan says, hoping he’s not laying on the sex-soothing too heavily. 

And so Dylan— does. 

Like. He guides someone through jerking off, and it’s not hot, exactly, but it’s also not soulless. He’s pleased when the guy starts to relax and be more honest, and their conversation settles into a rhythm that’s as close to comfortable as it can be. 

Dylan knows he’s good at that. Not in the context of sex, really, but just— talking to people. He can match them pretty easily, has a knack for figuring out what people want from him and what they’re nervous about and how to put those fears at rest, and that’s honestly most of what the work ends up being. Dylan doesn’t get turned on, but he’s content when it’s over, happy to hear the guy come, and feels a rush of pride when the guy thanks him and tells him that was a lot more fun than he expected it to be. 

“Of course,” Dylan says. “You know our number, call any time,” 

Then, he puts the phone on the receiver, and smiles, content. 

It’s silent for a few minutes in the transition from conversation to solitude, and so it takes a second for the noises of the apartment to sink back in; the AC whirring in the bedroom window, the muted sounds of leaves rustling outside, breathy panting sounds coming from the next room— 

The last one strikes Dylan more suddenly than the other two. 

He zeroes in on it, and he feels weird, for a second, but, like, it’s Mikey, and this is their business, and Dylan can be a professional, even if the way his face is burning doesn’t feel all that professional. 

He can’t make out the details of it. Just. General changes in pitch, and volume, and frequency, and Dylan manages to spare a thought for how he really hadn’t been bullshitting about phone sex being whatever you want it to be, because clearly Mikey’s first day is going very differently from his. 

Dylan hadn’t groaned once on his first call, hadn’t even had to raise his voice, but Mikey’s apparently already in the deep end and straight-up putting on a show. It’s probably a good show, too, because he sounds like he’s getting really, really into it. 

But, like, there’s no way he is. 

Right?

Like. This is phone sex. Fake. Mikey’s not actually  _ into  _ it. Dylan— he knows Mikey, really, really well, and Dylan doesn’t think Mikey’s the kind of guy to get off on the job, even if the job involves a lot of getting off. It would be against the rules for Mikey to get too into it. 

Not that there are any rules for this job, but there are some rules, somewhere. 

There are Ryan’s house rules, for one, and even though he hadn’t explicitly said it, Dylan’s pretty sure ‘don’t jerk off on my couch’ is one of them. 

Which. Is. Not something Dylan should’ve thought, because now he’s thinking about Mikey jerking off, and Mikey’s breathing is starting to pick up, which isn’t doing anything to help Dylan kill the image he has in his mind of Mikey, on his back, his hand stuffed down his pants, eyes squeezed shut and lips parted— 

No.  _ No.  _ That is not what’s happening, and Dylan is going to stop thinking about that, even if he has to put a pillow over his face and pretend he’s not hearing Mikey pretend—or,  _ hopefully  _ pretend—even if Dylan’s not sure what he’s hoping for—except he is, and it’s for Mikey to  _ not be getting off right now _ —orgasm. 

Then, Dylan waits a few more minutes, trying to figure out if the coast is clear, because he gets a text on his cell phone from Mikey asking that very same question, word-for-word.

Dylan doesn’t bother texting back, just gets up and walks into the living room. 

Mikey is lying on Ryan’s couch, but he’s not doing anything remotely sexy anymore. He doesn’t even look winded or red-faced or anything close to turned on. Mostly he looks… like he usually looks: on his phone, vaguely unaware of his surroundings, not at all like he was just having super intense mutual phone sex. 

“God, that went on  _ forever,” _ he says, not bothering to look up when Dylan walks in. “He was like, ‘louder, louder,’ and I was like, okay?” He does a gesture to match. “Like, he could hear me fine. He just wanted it so loud, and he kept dragging it out.” 

“Did he make you, like, uncomfortable?” 

“No, I was just bored,” Mikey says. 

Dylan stares at him. “Bored,” he echoes. 

Mikey gives him a shrug. “Yeah,” he says. “I mean, I guess it was fine.” He turns to Dylan. “How about you?” 

“Oh, it went… well,” Dylan says. “He was nice. Nervous.” 

Mikey smiles at that, this knowing, fond thing that makes Dylan’s stomach do this weird somersault-y thing. “I’m sure you helped him with that.” 

“What does that mean?” Dylan says, blushing and looking away, but not exactly upset about the comment. 

“It’s your gift,” Mikey says. “You make people feel safe, y’know?” 

“Because that’s what people want from a phone sex operator, a sense of security.” 

“That’s not unrelated,” Mikey says, and then he gives Dylan this— this  _ look, _ long and intense and impossible to decipher. It’s not unheard of for Mikey to do things that not even Dylan can understand, but it’s not exactly common, either, and it always makes him feel strange, even though it’s never more than a few seconds. 

They are, after all, very similar people, in most ways that count. 

“If you space out, I’m gonna have to make a joke about you having your head in the clouds, and we both know you don’t want that,” Dylan says, his voice a little too soft for it to really be a joke. 

Mikey shakes his head, like he’s clearing his thoughts. 

“This really was a good idea,” he says. 

The corners of Dylan’s mouth lift, and he bites his lip, not really trying at all to stop the smile from spreading across his face. “Yeah,” he says. “It really was.” 

***

So. Dylan figures a few things out. 

The first thing is that Mikey has a real future in voice acting, because he can really convince anyone that he’s legitimately having an orgasm, including Dylan, who is in the next room doing the exact same thing. 

Or, not the exact same, because Dylan tends to deal with the guys who want better conversation, whereas Mikey’s better at simulation. They both do both, really, but Dylan never ends up doing as much of the stuff he’s concerned about Ryan’s neighbors hearing. He’s not as good at doing a convincing fake orgasm, which would be more of a concern if he had any intention of doing the phone sex thing beyond the summer, but he doesn’t, so he’s largely unbothered by it. 

In general, the business side of things gets easier as they go along, and the phone sex part of it does, too. They fall into a pretty natural rhythm, and Mikey gets comfortable enough to hang out in the room sometimes while Dylan’s finishing up a call, which is annoying, because he’s a little shit who keeps trying to get Dylan to laugh, but also kind of nice, because it’s another layer of closeness, and Dylan’s always happy to add one of those. 

It could, in theory, be a vice-versa thing. Dylan’s walked through the living room to get to the kitchen while Mikey’s been on a call before; he’s heard him dirty talk, knows it’s strictly business, can handle it in small doses— 

But the issue is, when Mikey’s, like, getting into it, Dylan’s entire body feels a little bit like it’s on fire, and that’s something he’s not gonna touch with a ten foot pole. 

Or. Okay. Aside from jerking off to the sounds of Mikey’s fake orgasm noises, he’s not gonna touch it with a ten foot pole.

It’s just. They’re noises that are literally designed to be jerked off to, right, and it doesn’t necessarily mean that Dylan wants to bang Mikey. Tons of guys jerk off to Mikey’s voice, and they don’t even know him. It’s just— a good voice, that makes good noises, objectively speaking. Mikey just has the voice of someone Dylan would hypothetically wanna bang, or a voice that Dylan likes thinking about while he’s getting off, but it’s not the same as getting off while thinking about Mikey. That’s just— that’s a whole other thing, about a whole person, not just a voice, and this is strictly a voice thing. 

Whatever. It’s not like Dylan thinks about it when they’re not working. Like, if it’s just the two of them in Dylan’s basement, playing video games and drinking the not-cheap beer they can now afford to buy, that’s still just Dylan and Mikey, hanging out like normal. 

Until Mikey gets a kill, pumps his fist in the air, and makes some grunt-like noises in celebration— 

But even then, the thing Dylan’s usually thinking about is how Mikey’s face is red, and his arms are more muscular than Dylan’s expecting them to be, and his smile is nice, and how he manages to make all that weird for Dylan by accidentally sprinkling in sex noises. Otherwise, Dylan could just enjoy it like normal.

Not that Dylan doesn’t enjoy the noises— 

And not that Dylan, like,  _ enjoys  _ looking at Mikey—

Again, whatever. It’s not a problem, and Dylan’s not gonna let it become one, so it’s, like. Fine. 

***

Dylan is big enough to admit when he’s wrong, and he’d been so, so wrong about things being fine. 

He’s, like. Losing sleep over it. Matt notices something’s up. Ryan notices something’s up. Even his fucking mom notices something’s up. 

Mikey’s over as much as he usually is, so no one connects Dylan being weird and jumpy back to him, and thankfully, Mikey doesn’t seem to notice anything at all. 

Which is good. As long as Dylan can keep the Mikey-related weirdness away from Mikey, things are— 

Again, not fine, but. Sustainable, maybe. 

Until Mat calls a meeting with the four “founding partners”—which, in Dylan’s opinion, is an unnecessarily dramatic way to refer to a group of dudes who started up a phone sex hotline for funsies—to discuss “growth strategies.” 

“I don’t think we need to grow,” Dylan says. “This is a summer gig.” 

“But we want it to look good on resumes,” Mat says. 

“I’m not putting this on my resume,” Mikey says. “This is not something future employers will need to know about me.” 

“You don’t have to go into explicit detail—” Mat says, and he’s cut off when Nate snorts, which Dylan thinks is understandable, considering his entire job description is going into explicit detail. Mat shoots him a glare before continuing. “Just say that you had a key role in a startup which displayed impressive quantifiable growth.”

“How do you quantify growth for a phone sex hotline?” Mikey asks. “How do you  _ grow  _ a phone sex hotline?” 

“More profit,” Mat says simply. 

“So what, we take more calls?” Dylan says. “I’m pretty sure we’re taking as many as we can, and I don’t wanna work more hours.” 

“Um,” Nate says, raising his hand a little sheepishly, “I mean, not exactly.” 

Dylan turns to look at him, frowning, as Mikey says, “What?” 

“Well, I’m letting through all the calls I can within reason, like we discussed, but lately, there’s been a high demand for… uh, not previously offered services?” Nate says. 

“What services don’t we offer?” Dylan asks, because he’s pretty sure the only rules so far have been, ‘Make sure they sound like an adult and aren’t prank calls.’ 

“I’m not doing video chat, if that’s what this is about,” Mikey says. 

“And no headshots, not even fake ones,” Dylan adds. “Also, no texting, I’m not paying for a second cell phone—”

“No, still strictly landline stuff,” Nate says. “Just— people know we have more than one operator.” 

“Okay,” Mikey says slowly. 

“So,” Nate says, “Sometimes, they want to talk to both of you at once.” 

There’s a pause, and Dylan’s tempted to look at Mikey, but he also doesn’t think he’d be able to look at Mikey without exploding from— he doesn’t even know, can’t really pick out the word, but the sheer  _ something  _ of it. 

“So, like, phone threesomes,” Mat says, after a silence that lasts something between a couple of seconds and 45 years. 

“Yeah,” Nate says. “Phone threesomes.” 

It’s obvious the two of them are waiting for Dylan and Mikey to weigh in, and that Mikey is waiting for Dylan to weigh in first, but Dylan’s mouth is very dry and his brain is very much not capable of forming words, so it doesn’t look like that’s gonna be happening any time soon. 

“I’m fine with it if Stromer is,” Mikey says, and there’s an edge of something forced in the casual tone. 

“Yeah,” Dylan says absently, which is met with three confused stares. 

“Yeah, like, you’re fine with it? Or yeah like, you’re fine with it if Clouder’s fine with it?” Mat asks. 

“Uh,” Dylan says. “Is there a difference between those?” 

“I think there is,” Nate says. 

“I don’t,” Mikey says. “I mean— I don’t know. Whatever.” 

“No, it’s fine, let’s do it,” Dylan says. 

“Are you sure?” Mikey says. 

“Yeah,” Dylan says. “It’s not a big deal, y’know?” 

“So, we’re in agreement on this?” Mat says, and Mikey and Dylan both nod. 

“Cool,” Nate says. “Next time someone requests a threesome, I’ll put ‘em through.” 

“Sweet,” Mat says, and then he insists on shaking everyone’s hand. 

Dylan hopes Mat doesn’t notice how sweaty his palm is, when he does. 

***

So, it maybe takes banging Mikey for Dylan to realize he was lying to himself about the whole not-wanting-to-bang-Mikey thing, before. 

Or, okay. Realization is a long process, and if Dylan had to pinpoint a moment as the start of it, that moment would technically be before they bang for real, sometime while they’re pretend-banging for money while someone listens in.

It’s not like Dylan gets caught up looking in Mikey’s eyes during the phone sex. That part is business as usual, or even, less business than usual, because Mikey is barely paying attention, and Dylan keeps having to elbow him to remind him that he’s supposed to be making sounds that ruin Dylan’s life. 

Dylan, for his part, is finding the awkwardness of the whole thing to be surprisingly manageable. Not ideal, but the kind of awkward he can talk through, like if he focuses hard enough on saying words to the client and not on Mikey in any capacity, the awkwardness can start to disappear. 

Except, then, the client finishes, and Mikey and Dylan hang up, and Mikey makes this… noise. 

Not like, the noises he was making before, but also not unlike them. It’s this weird, choked, cut-off kind of thing, definitely not the kind of thing that should be hot, but it kind of is, anyway. It sounds a little like Dylan feels, confused, and maybe embarrassed, and then Dylan looks at Mikey for the first time since they picked up the phone, and, like— 

His face is red, is the first thing Dylan notices. 

There’s a blush high on his cheeks, which is a very un-Mikey thing, and at first, Dylan thinks it’s just discomfort, or embarrassment, but then he notices the way Mikey’s readjusting the way he’s sitting, kind of squirming, and not moving away from Dylan at all. 

It’s like. There’s something he wants from Dylan that he’s not sure how to ask for, or something he wants to say that he’s not sure how to phrase, and there’s something heavy and intense in the air, and Dylan’s hands are kind of… drawn to Mikey’s thighs.

Or, like, Dylan puts his hands on Mikey’s thighs, he makes that choice, but it’s not like he’s actually brave enough to do it himself, so he’s sure there’s got to be some sort of divine intervention at play. 

There’s a second where he’s nervous about it, when Mikey gulps, but then Mikey scoots a little closer, and Dylan runs his hands a little higher, and his thumb brushes over a tent in Mikey’s shorts that is… not his zipper. 

Mikey’s breath catches. 

And now Dylan’s probably blushing, too, and the air around them is supercharged all of a sudden, and so Dylan, in a classic display of Dylan Strome my-brain-isn’t-working-so-I’m-just-gonna-trust-my-gut stupidity, just kind of goes for it. 

He’s really not sure what he does first, between pulling Mikey into his lap and palming the front of his shorts to feel the way Mikey shudders at the touch. Like, he’s sure there’s some order to those events, but he couldn’t tell you what that order is, because he barely registers himself doing them until they’ve already happened, and Mikey’s already a turned-on mess of a person for Dylan. 

“God, touch me, please—” Mikey says, practically in a whisper, and Dylan’s not trying to be dramatic, but it sounds like a goddamn prayer coming from his lips, or maybe a blessing, or a curse, or a spell— the kind of thing Dylan can’t say no to, is the point.

“Yeah,” Dylan says, and then he’s undoing Mikey’s belt and unzipping his pants, and there’s this weird double-edged awareness to the whole thing, where a part of him can’t fathom that the boxers he’s currently tugging down are  _ Mikey’s,  _ but at the same time, he’s hyper-aware of the fact that it’s  _ Mikey’s  _ cock he’s taking in his hand, and  _ Mikey’s  _ precum he’s spreading over the head. 

“Oh, fuck,” Mikey says, except it’s more of an exhale, like he can barely even form those words, or do anything but tuck his head into Dylan’s shoulder and grasp at the fabric of his shirt, twisting it tightly in his knuckles like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this moment. 

And maybe Mikey really can’t form words, because the only sounds Dylan hears from him as he jerks him off are these small, breathy noises, and even then, Dylan doesn’t so much hear them as he feels the warm breath against his skin. 

It’s weird, because the whole problem with Mikey started with the noises, but the quietness of this is ringing louder than any exaggerated moan could ever hope to. There’s something strikingly, painfully real about the way Dylan has to fill the silence around them with the white noise of want, has to focus on the sounds of his hand on Mikey’s dick and fabric rubbing against fabric, because Dylan’s afraid that if he opens his mouth, it will kill the moment. 

For the first time all summer, this isn’t about the sound of anything, really, just the feeling of two bodies with no distance between them, running totally on the instinct to touch, even if it’s haphazard and sloppy and the middle of the afternoon on Dylan’s brother’s couch. 

Dylan’s half holding his breath the entire time, but thankfully, it’s not long before Mikey’s coming all over Dylan’s hand, going completely still for a second, his mouth open in some abandoned attempt at a sound. It’s fast and messy, without warning, all over Dylan’s hand and Mikey’s boxers and both of their shirts. 

Dylan feels the press of teeth on his neck, like Mikey’s trying to bite his own tongue but Dylan’s skin got in the way, and then, Mikey relaxes, and Dylan lightly strokes him through, not even thinking about how gross they both are, or anything that could even remotely resemble a consequence of this. 

Mikey’s inhales and exhales get longer and slower and louder as he comes down from his orgasm, and Dylan takes a second to relax in the calm after the storm of emotions, trying to figure out what the fuck just happened. 

Then, Mikey pulls back, and Dylan’s looking at his face, and— 

Yeah, no, Dylan’s not gonna be able to pick this one apart any time soon. 

He looks. Serious. Which is the least Mikey McLeod thing in the universe, but also, he looks  _ scared,  _ which is just fucking bizarre, because Mikey’s never been scared of Dylan before. But then again, Dylan’s never been scared of Mikey before, and he’s definitely fucking terrified— maybe not of Mikey, but of the newness, and the confusion, and the fact that he has no idea what’s going to happen next. 

It’s that last one that really gets to him. Dylan almost always knows what’s going to happen next, but with this, he’s honestly got no fucking clue. 

“Uh,” Mikey says, sounding a bit dazed. “Thanks.” 

“Yeah, don’t sweat it, bud,” Dylan says, which, jesus fucking christ, he’s a  _ phone sex operator. _

He really needs to sort this the fuck out. Like, yesterday.

“I’m just gonna—” Mikey says, climbing out of Dylan’s lap, and Dylan feels weirdly disappointed, which is probably stupid, because he doesn’t even know what he wanted to happen instead. 

“Alright,” Dylan says. “Did you need a change of clothes?” 

“Uh,” Mikey says, looking down at his crotch. “Probably?” 

“I think I have some stuff I left here back when Ryan used to actually live here,” Dylan says. “Take what you need.” 

“Alright,” Mikey says. “Thanks.” 

This time, instead of risking saying words, Dylan just nods. 

It’s the end of the day, so they leave pretty quickly after that, and while Dylan changes into a new shirt and attempts to get rid of the traces of Mikey’s come on his old one, he avoids thinking about the fact that Mikey’s wearing his underwear, or about Mikey, period, which proves to be pretty impossible.

***

To the surprise of no one, Dylan doesn’t hear from Mikey at all after work, and he can barely sleep that night, because he knows he’s got some serious shit to reconcile, right now, but he’s still trying to wrap his head around the fact that yesterday even  _ happened,  _ and he’s nowhere near able to being to sort out what it actually means.

So, naturally, he avoids the world altogether and commits to not leaving his house the next day.

“Stromer,” Connor says, when Dylan calls him from the basement to catch him up on what he’s missed so far this summer, and ends up confessing the whole thing. “You can’t lead him on like this.” 

“What does that mean?” 

“You know he’s got a thing for you,” Connor says, like this is obvious information that’s not totally ripping Dylan’s worldview apart. 

“No,” Dylan says. “No, there’s no way—”

“Dyl, come on,” Connor says. “He followed you around like a lost puppy for the first half of sophomore year.” 

“Because he was a freshman,” Dylan says. 

“Sure,” Connor says. “And also because he was in love with you, and probably still is.” 

“He’s not—” Dylan shakes his head, in an attempt to clear his head that does jack shit to help. “You’re so off base, man.” 

“We all thought you knew,” Connor says. “I mean, it’s not like he was aware of it.” 

“How could he not be aware of it if he was—” Dylan gulps. “If he felt that way? About me?” 

“You two grew up together,” Connor says. 

“So?” 

“So, he already loves you a lot, which makes it harder to tell when it’s just friend-love or, like, love-love.” 

“Then how do you all know which it is?” Dylan asks. 

“Just— a bunch of small things,” Connor says. “Bastian asked about it after he knew Mikey for, like, a day, and there’s the whole thing where he gets  _ super _ jealous—”

“Mikey doesn’t get jealous,” Dylan says, because that’s, like, Mikey’s  _ thing.  _ Dylan is a jealous person who has a fair number of jealous friends. He knows from jealous, and Mikey is, like, the opposite of that: laid back, weirdly honest, and always on the right side of too blunt. He’s strange, and he has his flaws, but jealousy is not one of them. 

“He does when it’s about you,” Connor says. 

“Listen, Smarty Pants McKnow-it-all, I know you like to think you’re an expert in everything, but I’m the expert on Mikey,” Dylan says. “He’s not jealous, and he’s  _ not _ in love with me.” 

“Why are you so sure that it’s not even a possibility?” Connor says. “You have to have considered it, at least a little.” 

“No, that’s— why would I consider that? About Mikey?” 

“Because he’s always there,” Connor says. 

“So what, just because someone’s there that automatically means I should expect them to fall in love with me? Because I’m just pretty sure—”

“Not that they’d be in love with you necessarily, but, like, at least that it’s a possibility,” Connor says. “You’re literally the boy next door.” 

“He’s the boy next door,” Dylan says. 

“That goes both ways,” Connor says. “Dude, are you honestly telling me you’ve never thought about it?” 

“No, of course not,” Dylan says, because thinking about Mikey like that had always been strictly off-limits, until this summer.

“So you’re telling me,” Connor says, “that you hook up with a guy you’ve known your entire life, and that’s the first time you’ve ever thought about the possibility of doing things with him.” 

“I—” Dylan starts, but he cuts himself off, because he’s really not sure how to answer that. 

“Dyl,” Connor says. “You guys are… really, really close.” 

“He’s also close with Nater,” Dylan says. 

“Okay, but you guys are a different kind of close,” Connor says. “I’m just saying, if there’s something between you two that’s more-than-bros, it’s… probably not all that new.”

The words land on Dylan like a piano dropped from a high window in a cartoon, and he’s pretty sure that, if someone were to look at him, they’d see doodled birds circling his head. 

Here’s the thing: Dylan knows he’s good at lying to himself. 

Specifically, he’s good at lying to himself to preserve friendships. It’s how he’s made it through heartache without cluing anyone in, and how he’s avoided any major fights that lead to falling-outs, and how he’s managed to be supportive of everyone in his life through all their shit, even if it hurt him for a little. He doesn’t let people, like, walk all over him, but he’s good at putting on the illusion of selfless patience when he needs to, and knows he’s better at putting aside his own bullshit than most people.

Mikey has been Not A Possibility for so long, and Dylan hasn’t let himself linger on any passing thoughts, hasn’t once considered any world in which that’s allowed, because Mikey and Dylan have always made too much sense, and Dylan’s always liked Mikey too much, and Mikey’s always liked Dylan too much right back. 

And if their respective kinds of liking-too-much didn’t line up, that would suck  _ so  _ bad, and not in the kind of way their friendship could handle, and having Mikey in his life has always been unriskable, and the idea of entertaining, even for a second, the possibility that Mikey has some capital-F Feelings happening, is already starting to open up a Pandora’s Box of expertly compartmentalized feelings. 

“We cannot talk about this anymore,” Dylan says. 

“Dyl—” 

“He’s not,” Dylan says. “That’s just— he’s not in love with me. We’re not like that. This conversation is over.” 

“Why are you talking about this like it’s the worst thing in the world?” 

“Because it is?” Dylan says. “Because Mikey can’t be in  _ love  _ with me, Davo, what the fuck.” He’s shaking as he says it, and he can hear Connor furrowing his brow all the way at his fancy internship in Edmonton. 

“You hooked up with him,” Connor says. “I just— how did you not know?” 

“There’s nothing to know,” Dylan says. 

“Dylan—” 

“Davo,” Dylan says. “There’s nothing to know. Okay?” 

“You hooked up with him,” Connor says. 

“I’m aware,” Dylan snaps. “It was— a heat of the moment thing, that’s all. He’s hot, we were alone, it was just a thing.” 

“And that’s why you’re freaking out?” 

“I’m not freaking out!” Dylan says, his breath starting to come in short. “I was just letting you know about a weird one-off thing, and you’re the one who went and made it into more than that.” 

“Jesus, say how you really feel,” a voice says from behind Dylan. 

Dylan falls off the couch, landing on the floor with a ‘thud’ and Connor’s voice in his ear. 

“Holy shit,” Dylan says, catching his breath. 

“Stromer?” Connor says. “What happened?” 

Dylan doesn’t answer, because he’s too stunned by the sight of Nathan Bastian standing over him. 

“Dyl?” 

“I’ll call you back,” Dylan says, and then he hangs up before Connor has a chance to say goodbye.

Nate crosses his arms and looks at Dylan expectantly as Dylan stands, brushing himself off. 

“How did you—” Dylan starts.

“Ryan let me in,” Nate says, cutting him off. “We were looking for Mikey.” 

“I haven’t seen him,” Dylan says. 

“No shit,” Nate says. “He’s been acting weird.” 

Dylan looks at his feet. “Has he.” 

“Yeah,” Nate says. “He won’t talk to me or Ryan about it.” 

“D’you think he’s okay?” 

“I don’t know,” Nate says. “Did you two seriously—” 

Dylan’s face burns. “Uh. Maybe a little.” 

“When?” 

“Yesterday.” 

“Like, yesterday night?” 

“Sort of,” Dylan says. “Like… early evening?” 

Nate squints. “Before or after dinner?” 

“Before,” Dylan says. 

“So when—” 

“Oh my god, it was— we were at work,” Dylan says. 

“You mean— like, while you were talking to a client?” Nate says. “That’s not in your job descriptions, you know.” 

“Yeah, no shit,” Dylan says. “It was right after we hung up, it, like— it just sorta happened.” 

“That kind of thing doesn’t ‘just happen,’” Nate says. 

“I’d go into detail, but I’d have to charge you,” Dylan says, wry. “I can give you the number, if you want.” 

“That’s not what I meant,” Nate says. “Like, was it— what did you say afterwards?” 

“I don’t know?” Dylan says. “Not much.” 

“So it just— happened?” 

“Yes, that’s what I’m saying.” 

“You two seriously didn’t think that you should maybe talk it out after?” 

“I didn’t not think about it,” Dylan says. “I just— I didn’t know what to say, so I figured I’d take the day to work it out.” 

“And how’s that working out for you?” 

“Great question,” Dylan says, and then he shrugs. “Connor says Mikey’s in love with me, so I’m a little stuck on that.” 

“He barely knows Mikey,” Nate says, which neither confirms nor denies that statement. 

“Yeah,” Dylan says. 

“So, why call him?” 

“Because he knows me,” Dylan says. “And he usually tells me not to blow things out of proportion. Which I do, a lot.” 

“If you and Mikey hooked up, that’s a big fucking deal,” Nate says. 

“Yeah, I got that part,” Dylan says, shooting him a glare. “I just wanted to pretend it wasn’t, for a second, but no dice.” 

“Well, do you know what you’re gonna do?” 

Dylan looks at the floor again. “It’s a lot—” 

“So that’s a no, then,” Nate says, kind of curt, and Dylan would be offended, except he would totally be doing the same thing if their positions were reversed. Nate is Mikey’s friend, first and foremost.

“I don’t want to hurt him,” Dylan says. It’s only half of the truth, but Nate doesn’t hear the unspoken,  _ I don’t want to get hurt.  _

“Then maybe you should have thought about that yesterday, around early evening,” Nate says, meanest Dylan’s ever heard him. It’s what Dylan deserves, and it’s definitely what Mikey deserves. 

“Yeah,” Dylan says, and he’s not really saying much of anything, but it feels like a lie anyway. 

Nate doesn’t say anything more, just storms out of the basement, probably to double down on finding Mikey, and Dylan feels a swirl of emotions inside of him start to settle into guilt and fear and regret, deep in his stomach. 

***

Dylan doesn’t want to sound old, but, like. Technology. 

It’s fucking wild. 

Like, Dylan opens his phone with the intention of— he doesn’t even know, doing whatever he usually does on his phone. Looking at shitty Instagram memes and pictures of dogs and videos of food being cooked in double time, whatever. But one wrong swipe of the thumb lands him in Snapchat instead, and another shows him the weird map feature that lets you see where people are. 

Really, he wouldn’t have given it a second thought if he hadn’t seen Nate’s Bitmoji, and what he thought was Mikey’s, which turned out to be Ryan’s instead. 

They’re in a car, though, and Dylan’s just like… watching them drive, which is weird, and then he sees the Mikey Bitmoji at the middle school’s parking lot, and now, Dylan pretty much can’t look away. 

It’s, like, the world’s most boring cartoon: two drawings of dudes Dylan knows drive to a drawing of another dude he knows, stay there for, like, ten minutes, and then leave. 

The Mikey Bitmoji stays behind. 

But the truly wild thing, in Dylan’s head, is that he knows for a fact that Nate—the same Nate who Dylan had talked to earlier about hooking up with Mikey—had just gone with Mikey’s brother to talk to Mikey. He knows where Mikey is. Like, those things are happening, and the reason Dylan can’t look away is because knowing all this logistical information for a fact and not being able to use it to guess what the fuck is going on in people’s heads taps into the part of Dylan that really hates not knowing things. Like, this is the fakest possible way to represent a real person, and not even the kind of fake you can read into, and because of that, Dylan’s suddenly thinking a lot more about Mikey, just because of a stupid app.

Like. It’s not like Dylan had forgotten about Mikey. He’s been, in some way or another, thinking about Mikey all fucking day. But there’s a difference between trying to reconcile what you think could be happening within a reasonable margin of error and actually, like, thinking about another person. 

Dylan’s afraid of— a lot of things, really, but mostly he’s afraid to think about what he wants from Mikey. Because if he wants Mikey in a way that Mikey doesn’t want him, that’s heartbreak, and that sucks, and that’s just logical. In theory, Dylan doesn’t want to touch on any deeper feelings he might have for Mikey, because that shit’s terrifying, and what he and Mikey have is good, so Dylan doesn’t see any reason to change things. 

Theoretically.

But also, theoretically, Dylan shouldn’t have ever hooked up with Mikey, but in practice, he could stand to keep his hands off of him. In theory, Dylan knows the good outweighs the bad of staying slightly-closer-than-normal best friends with Mikey, but in practice, Dylan feels so happy he can’t breathe sometimes, and he’s not sure if it’s torture or bliss. 

In theory, Dylan’s safest bet is to give Mikey a few days to cool off then have the ‘I’m cool with it if you are, let’s pretend like it never happened’ conversation he’s been idly planning in his head. 

In practice— 

Honestly, Dylan can’t stomach the idea of not giving this a shot, not when he has the chance to save them both from some seriously unnecessary pain. 

Dylan looks at the Mikey Bitmoji again, still in the same place as before, and he watches Nate and Ryan drive back, and then he zooms out until he sees himself and Matty in this house, and Marns and Auston in the city, and Mat and his roommates a few blocks away, and his Ryan right next to his boyfriend, and Mikey’s Matt all the way in Buffalo, and Connor all the way in Edmonton. 

Then, he zooms back in on Mikey. 

Snap Maps are a pretty cool feature, Dylan decides, as he stands up off the couch, bounds up the stairs, and grabs his car keys off the counter before heading out the door.

***

“You have a net in your driveway,” Dylan says. “You didn’t have to come out here.” 

Mikey stiffens right as his stick is about to make contact with the puck. “I should really turn that feature off, you’re the third person to find me with it.” 

“I didn’t know how to use it until today,” Dylan says. 

“So what, it takes a special occasion to get you to stalk me?” 

Dylan shrugs. “I usually don’t have to track you down.” 

“It’s not like you were exactly blowing up my phone,” Mikey says, and then he hits a slapshot at the brick wall. Back when they were students here, someone had blacked out the grout so that there was a rectangle about the size of a hockey net outlined on the wall; apparently, that’s turned into a tradition, because it’s still there, and the puck goes roughly top shelf. 

“Nice,” Dylan says. 

“Whatever,” Mikey says, grabbing another puck with the stick. “Why’re you here, anyway?”

“Why do you think?” Dylan says. 

Mikey takes another shot. “Probably for the same reason I’m here.” 

“Avoiding me?” 

“I mean, more generally,” Mikey says, and then he stands his stick up, resting both his hands and his forehead on the grip. “Y’know. Because of yesterday.” 

“Well,” Dylan says, but he can’t bring himself to say any more than that, because he’s not really sure why he’s here, and part of it is because of yesterday, but it’s also about the twentyish years of friendship leading up to it, and an entire summer of confusion, and a series of strange revelations that have made it very clear that Dylan-and-Mikey isn’t a simple thing. 

Which has maybe always been obvious, but. 

Mikey sighs. “I don’t want to make a big deal out of it.” 

“So it’s not a big deal to you, then?” Dylan says, a little hurt, even though he knows, logically, that Mikey’s just downplaying it. 

“That’s not what I said,” Mikey says, like he’s irritated and trying very hard to sound patient. “Just that I don’t want to make it one.” 

“But it already kind of is,” Dylan says. 

“That’s not what I heard through the grapevine,” Mikey says. 

And— oh. That’s why he looks very angry, and a little bit like he’s about to cry. 

“I guess Bastian found you.” 

“Yeah, he did,” Mikey says. “Glad to know you were telling everyone—”

“I brought it up to one friend,” Dylan says. 

“And Nater just happened to overhear you at that exact moment?” 

“Yes,” Dylan says. 

Mikey scoffs. “Dude, come on.” 

“I’m telling the truth,” Dylan says. “It was a long conversation.” 

“Maybe you should’ve waited ‘til Monday to have it, we could’ve made a buck off him.” Mikey rests his stick on the ground, then starts packing up the pile of pucks he’d been aiming from. “Hope you gave him all the juicy details.” 

“It wasn’t like that,” Dylan says. 

“Then what was it like?” Mikey snaps, and then he sits on the pavement, putting his arms around his knees. “Because I feel like if you’re gonna get a guy off then not talk to him for the next 24 hours, you should at least know what you want to say when you finally do.” 

“So you’re hiding out in a school parking lot having, what, productive time for self-reflection?” 

“I was trying to sort shit out,” Mikey says. “But then Nater and fucking Ryan wouldn’t leave me alone, and now  _ you  _ aren’t leaving me alone—” 

“Well, I was trying to sort shit out too, but I wasn’t making any progress.” 

“Really?” Mikey says. “Because Nater told me it sounded like you had it all sorted out when you were talking to your Bestest McFriend, or whatever.” 

Dylan snorts, because he can’t help it. “You can’t say the words ‘Bestest McFriend’ when you’re this angry, dude.” 

“Well, I forgot his name and didn’t wanna lose momentum, whatever,” Mikey says, his cheeks turning red. “And fuck you, I’m not angry.” 

“Uh, yeah you are,” Dylan says, walking over to pick up the remaining pucks scattered near the bag, and then he sits, perpendicular to Mikey. “Look— I’m sorry I told Davo, okay? I just didn’t know what to do.” 

“I don’t fucking care who you tell,” Mikey says. “That’s not why I’m— like, that’s not what’s wrong, here.” 

“I figured,” Dylan says, and then he takes a deep breath. “There’s some shit I wanna say to you, I think.” 

“Then say it,” Mikey says. 

“I’m planning on it,” Dylan says. “Just— you know Nate overheard half a conversation that he wasn’t meant to hear, right?” 

“Don’t make this about him,” Mikey says. “I didn’t ask him to eavesdrop.” 

“That’s not what I was gonna say,” Dylan says. “Like, I don’t even blame him, he was worried as fuck about you, and then he heard me, and— I dunno.” He shrugs. “I get where he was coming from, I guess.” 

“Okay,” Mikey says, and he sounds a little resigned. 

“But, like— I don’t know, man, sometimes I just say shit, y’know?” 

“Wow, profound,” Mikey deadpans. 

“No, I mean, when I’m working things out, or trying to come up with ideas, sometimes I just say the first thing that pops into my head.” 

“They say you should trust your gut,” Mikey says. 

“Not when you’re panicking,” Dylan says. “That’s when your brain just starts to tell you all sorts of crazy shit that’s not true.” 

“You weren’t panicking,” Mikey says, like he’s delivering bad news. “You might’ve panicked yesterday, but panic doesn’t last that long.” 

Dylan thinks about that; he’s pretty sure he’s been in a constant state of panicking over Mikey for years, now, even if he’s only just now starting to realize it. 

“Maybe panic isn’t the right word, then,” Dylan says. “I was just kind of— freaking out? I don’t—” he takes a second, searching for the right words, because he’s only barely sure of what he’s feeling, even if he’s also, like,  _ really  _ sure at the same time. 

What he comes up with is, “Do you ever have to say something out loud to realize how stupid it sounds?” 

Mikey furrows his brow. “What?” 

“Like— I don’t know,” Dylan says. “You confuse me a lot, okay?” 

“I’m pretty sure you’re the one who’s being confusing.” 

“I didn’t say you were being confusing, just that you confuse me,” Dylan says. “Like, that you make me confused.” 

“Is there a difference?” Mikey asks, and the edge of anger-sadness-whatever that’s been in his voice the whole conversation fades, a little, and Dylan latches onto that. 

“Yeah,” Dylan says. “Like— Connor was telling me you’re in love with me—” Mikey stiffens, and opens his mouth, but Dylan cuts him off. “And I’m not asking you to weigh in on that, because that’s not relevant.” 

“Dude, no offense, but how would that not be relevant?” Mikey says. 

“Because it doesn’t matter whether you do or don’t,” Dylan says. “Or, at least, not for the next few minutes— like. I don’t know, we hooked up, and it was a big deal, and now we don’t know what to do, and the fact that we don’t know what to do— that means something, okay? Like, why is it that the idea of us, as a possibility, is just, like, so beyond something my brain is capable of imagining?” 

“What do you mean by ‘us’?” Mikey says. 

“Like, the two of us being— a thing. Involved. Anything more than what we are now, you know?” 

Mikey deflates, and that’s when Dylan realizes he’s probably fucking this up. 

“Well, then,” Mikey says. “I guess it’s just ridiculous.” 

Dylan shakes his head, firm. “No, that’s the thing. I can picture ridiculous shit. We started a phone sex hotline out of my brother’s apartment, okay? Ridiculous is totally within the realm of possibility.” 

“Fair enough,” Mikey says, cracking a small smile, but it fades quickly. “Then, why do you think that kind of thing is impossible?” 

Dylan takes a deep breath before he speaks, because this is the hard part, the thing he’s always known and never let himself think about. “I think,” he says, “it’s always seemed too good to be true, y’know?” 

There’s a long stretch of silence after that, and Dylan holds his breath the entire time, searching Mikey’s face for any traces of a reaction. 

There’s nothing, though, besides a numb kind of shock, and Dylan feels a little bit like he’s dying, or going to explode, or something. 

Finally, Mikey just echoes, “Too good to be true.” 

“It just— it makes too much sense,” Dylan says. “I’m not used to things working out like that.” 

“I— you’re sending me mixed messages,” Mikey says. “Like,  _ seriously  _ mixed messages.” 

It’s breathy, and Dylan can see that Mikey’s shaking, a little, and he wants to reach out and touch him, but he holds back, because this whole thing is still a little too fragile, for that. 

Still, it’s progress. 

“I don’t think the messages are mixed,” Dylan says. “I just— Like. if you’re in love with me, and, like, you don’t have to tell me if you are— this is probably good news.” 

“You just…” Mikey starts, shaking his head in disbelief. “You took me on the single most stressful emotional rollercoaster I’ve ever been on in my entire life.” 

“I’m sorry—”

“You seriously didn’t think to  _ lead _ with that?” Mikey says. “We had to go through this whole speech where you, like, pretended like you were gonna let me down easy before you got to the surprise twist ending?” 

“I was thinking out loud,” Dylan says, putting his hands up. “I didn’t come into this with a game plan, okay?” 

“No, shut up, it’s perfect,” Mikey says, and he’s still shaking his head when he breaks down in the most hysterical fit of laughter Dylan’s ever seen. “I can’t believe I used to think you were cool, holy shit.” 

“Hey,” Dylan says, smiling, but also mildly concerned that Mikey’s just, like, laughing at him. If this whole thing was just some elaborate prank to fuck with his emotions, this friendship is probably over for good. 

“Please, you’re a fucking disaster,” Mikey says, still laughing, his face planted firmly against his legs as his entire body shakes. “It’s okay, so am I, just— wow, god, sorry, I need a sec.” 

“Sure, take your time,” Dylan says, sarcastic and probably a little desperate. “I’m totally not dying after confessing my feelings, or whatever—” 

“Don’t worry, I’ll kiss you in a second, I just need to, like, get my shit together,” Mikey says, but then he just starts laughing even harder.

“You know, this is really doing a number on my self esteem,” Dylan says. “And that’s already not great, so—” 

“I’m so sorry,” Mikey squeezes his knees one last time before he finally lifts his head. “I really like you, I swear,” he says as he wipes tears of laughter from his face. “I’m just— really happy? I think?” 

“Weird way of showing it,” Dylan says, and he’s not hurt anymore, but he’s, like, mildly irritated. 

He’s also extremely elated, but that’s neither here nor there. 

“Okay, I think I’m done now,” Mikey says, even though he’s still kind of chuckling. “Alright, stand up, let’s do this.” 

“What?” 

“I told you, I’m gonna kiss you,” Mikey says, standing up, and then he offers Dylan a hand. “Come on, let’s fucking go.” 

“Wow, romantic,” Dylan says sarcastically, but he takes Mikey’s hand and doesn’t let go, even when he’s standing.

And they’re face to face, and Mikey’s cheeks are still red from laughter, and it’s, like, terrifying, but it’s also pretty fucking nice. 

“Okay,” Mikey says, nodding, fixing his face into a serious expression. “So, should you kiss me, or— like, how are we doing this?” 

“We just— kiss each other,” Dylan says. “You’ve kissed people before.” 

“I know, but this feels different.” 

“Well, I don’t know what to tell you,” Dylan says. “It’s not.” 

“Okay, but it feels—” he shakes his head, like he’s clearing his thoughts. “Whatever, I’m just gonna—” he takes a step towards Dylan, putting a hand on his face. “Is this okay?” 

“Yes,” Dylan says, and he’s almost thankful Mikey’s being so annoying about this. He’d rather be impatient than nervous. 

“Cool,” Mikey says, nodding, and then, very slowly, he starts to lean in. 

Unfortunately, he doesn’t make it all the way to Dylan’s mouth. 

He gets close. Like, close enough that Dylan can feel the warmth of Mikey’s breath on his mouth, and that his heart starts to race, but, unfortunately, before that turns into an actual kiss, Mikey’s doubled over laughing again. 

“Are you  _ serious,”  _ Dylan says. “Dude.”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Mikey says, but considering he’s practically in stitches, Dylan doesn’t feel too bad for him. “I think it’s what you were saying before, about, like, the whole too-good-to-be-true thing?” 

“Well, I don’t know, get past it?” Dylan says. 

“I’m trying,” Mikey says, and thankfully, he manages to calm himself down. “Okay, okay, I think I’m done.” 

“Finally,” Dylan says, and he’s pretty sure Mikey gets that he’s not actually annoyed, just, like, kinda scared. Laughter can really egg on stomach-butterflies, in the right situation. 

Mikey situates his mouth in front of Dylan’s again. “Alright, take two. Action.”

And this time, it’s Dylan who laughs, which is less out of control than Mikey’s laughing, but still hard to kiss through. “Are you kidding me, man?”

“What? It’s not like laughing is contagious,” Mikey says, even though he’s clearly struggling not to join in. 

“Still,” Dylan says, “this is  _ your  _ fault. You made me laugh.” 

“Well, sorry I use humor to cope with being nervous about shit,” Mikey says. 

“Thought that’s what the pucks were for.” 

“I’m a man of many coping mechanisms.” 

“Fair enough,” Dylan says, and he takes a few deep breaths. “Okay, I’m gonna stop laughing before you start again.” 

“I swear, we’ll get around to this eventually,” Mikey says. 

“Hopefully before curfew,” Dylan says. 

“Trish gives you guys a curfew?” Mikey says. “That blows, man.” 

“Please stop talking about my mother.” 

“Okay, good idea,” Mikey says, and then he puts his hand on Dylan’s shoulders and looks him right in the eye. 

This time, it’s both of them who break down into giggles, Mikey tucking his face into Dylan’s shoulder as Dylan holds him in place. At least Dylan gets to smell his hair and not feel weird about it. That’s, like, a step towards kissing. 

“We seriously need to stop laughing if we ever want to kiss each other,” Dylan says. 

“I know,” Mikey says. “I feel like it’s also because it’s just, like, weird?” 

“What, because it’s us?” 

“Yeah,” Mikey says. “I mean, I want to, don’t get me wrong, but— I dunno, it’s just different.” 

“I know what you mean,” Dylan says. “It’s like, when you’ve put off updating your phone for forever, just because it’s annoying to have to restart it and shit.”

“Are you comparing dating me to an iOS upgrade?” Mikey says. 

“Maybe,” Dylan says, and his grin goes from a giggle fit smile to something calmer, wider, more fond. “One of the good ones, though. With new emojis.” 

“Which new emojis?” 

“I don’t know,” Dylan says. “The avocado one? No, wait, you hate guac— the unicorn.” 

“Aw,” Mikey says. “That’s, like, almost romantic? Maybe?” 

“Thanks, I try,” Dylan says, and then Mikey’s giggling again. 

“I really wish I could stop laughing, but every time I try to stop, that just makes it harder,” Mikey says. 

“I know,” Dylan says, rubbing his back sympathetically. “Okay, new plan, I just kiss you, and we hope you stop laughing eventually.” 

“Are you sure that’s gonna work?”

“There’s only one way to find out,” Dylan says, and then Mikey lifts his head up, and then, before either of them has time to get nervous, he ducks his head down and presses their lips together. 

It’s not a great kiss, at first. Mikey’s still laughing, and Dylan’s neck is at a weird angle, and even though Dylan literally had Mikey’s dick in his hand a day ago, this is somehow the weirdest thing. Not because dick touching isn’t intimate—that’s not an argument a reasonable human being can make, and Dylan can be a reasonable human being, on occasion—but it’s different kissing over talked-about feelings. 

Like.  _ Feelings.  _

F-e-e-l-i-n-g-s. 

Feelings that Dylan has for Mikey, and Mikey has for Dylan, and that they’ve both been ignoring or repressing or dealing with in any and every way but the productive ways. Dylan’s used to things being a certain way with Mikey, and now that all of their feelings have been unleashed onto their friendship, that’s about to majorly change. They’re gonna have to tell their families, and their friends, and they’re gonna do all sorts of things that Dylan’s never thought of as Dylan-and-Mikey things before, like go out for romantic dinners. 

Like, Dylan’s gonna call Mikey his  _ boyfriend.  _ That’s gonna be how he refers to him, when he talks about Mikey to people who don’t know him. And sure, it’s a much more convenient label than explaining that Mikey’s his other half in a way that comes from sharing a childhood but isn’t really a brother even if he’s more than a best friend, but still. That’s not the label Dylan is used to, is the point. 

But then. 

Mikey stops laughing, and he doesn’t stop smiling, but his mouth relaxes against Dylan’s. They adjust their bodies so that they’re not in a strange hug-turned-into-a-frantic-kiss position, but just pressed up against each other, Mikey’s hands on Dylan’s hips, one of Dylan’s hands on Mikey’s shoulder, while the other rests on his bicep. 

And like. 

It just feels— nice. 

Like they fit. 

“Whoa,” Mikey says, pulling away from Dylan’s mouth, but there can’t be more than a centimeter between them. 

“Yeah,” Dylan says dumbly.

“This way a good idea,” Mikey says. “A great idea. Like, maybe the best idea ever.” 

“Better than a phone sex hotline?” Dylan says, a small grin playing on his lips.

“Hmm,” Mikey says, pretending to consider, and fuck, he really is cute. Dylan cannot believe it took him this long to notice, honestly. “I’m not sure. I think I’d have to kiss you more to know for certain.”

“If you insist,” Dylan says, and then he leans in again, with no intention of coming up for air any time soon. 

Naturally, Mikey is already on the same page. 

***

**Epilogue**

Reason number 3247923874 that Mikey McLeod is the best boyfriend in the entire universe: he manages to convince Ryan to let them hold a post-ball hockey party at his apartment. 

“I’m going to hell,” Mikey says, when he tells Dylan. 

“It’s okay,” Dylan says. “I told you to pull out all the stops in the negotiations—” 

“This is so bad, though,” Mikey says. “I didn’t McLeod us that apartment, I straight-up manipulated your brother.” 

“Well, what did you say?” 

Mikey puts his face in his hands. “That I was throwing you a surprise party.” 

Dylan blinks. “And that worked?”

“So easily,” Mikey says, sounding distraught. “He thinks I’m being all cute and attentive and shit, but I’m a fraud. I’m a  _ delinquent.”  _

“I mean,” Dylan says, “you’re a cute and attentive delinquent?” 

“I think I gave myself trust issues,” Mikey says. 

“I think lying to him about the cause of a party we’re throwing is nothing compared to running a phone sex hotline out of his apartment for an entire summer.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

Dylan shrugs. “Did it work?” 

Mikey lifts his head out of his hands, considers that for a second, then shrugs. “Kinda, yeah.” 

“Awesome,” Dylan says, throwing an arm over Mikey’s shoulders and grinning. “Now, let’s go convince Barzy that booze is a good business choice, so he’ll buy it for us.” 

“I’m the negotiator in this relationship, and I’ve gotta say, I don’t think that argument’s gonna hold up.” 

“No, it will,” Dylan says. “Barzy’s super easy. If you submit a receipt and use the words ‘business expenditure’ he’ll pay for literally anything.” 

“Even champagne?” 

“Fancy,” Dylan says. “What’s wrong with beer?” 

“You can’t make a toast with beer,” Mikey says. 

“You can make a toast with whatever you want.” 

“Sure, but this is a toast to the company formerly known as 1-800-Eat Ass,” Mikey says. “If I’m gonna get up in front of people and say those words, I want to have champagne in my hand.” 

“How about,” Dylan says, tugging Mikey closer, “I get a bottle of champagne for the two of us, and you can make a toast with that.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Mikey says, and then he gives Dylan a kiss on the cheek, before biting at his nose, because he’s kind of a little weirdo. 

Dylan’s weirdo, whom he loves, like, an embarrassing amount, but a weirdo nonetheless. 

“Y’know,” Mikey says, “I’m gonna miss our strange little business.”

“So am I,” Dylan says.

“I mean, the money part, but also— it was kinda fun?” Mikey shrugs. “Also, it made us boyfriends.” 

“I think we made us boyfriends,” Dylan points out. 

“The phone sex helped,” Mikey says. “It was our cupid’s arrow, y’know?” 

“So, don’t take this the wrong way,” Dylan says, “but I kind of hope we end up getting married, just so I can bring up this conversation during the reception.” 

“If we get married, I hope you have 1-800-Eat Ass in your vows,” Mikey says. 

“We’ll get it engraved on the rings,” Dylan promises.

“And we can have champagne for that, too?” 

“At our wedding?”

“Yeah.” 

“Sure, but maybe we should focus on the party that’s happening in a few weeks, and not, like, a few decades,” Dylan says. 

“We could get married in a few weeks,” Mikey says. 

And Dylan’s pretty sure Mikey’s joking, but he does have to actively remind himself to like, slow down, jesus christ, they’ve only been dating for a month. 

“I think we’ve done enough crazy shit for one summer,” Dylan says, and then, because it’s Mikey, “Ask me again in the fall, and we’ll see.” 


	2. podfic

**[[download link](http://www.mediafire.com/file/xwjs9ou9fpqrcy3/%5Bhockey_rpf%5D_for_a_good_time_call.mp3/file)]**  

 **Size:** 90.9MB 

 **Length:** 1:38:56

_ft. music by All-American Rejects and Jimmy Eat World_

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to ali, ash, ang, susie, esen, and rachel for your feedback on this, i'm so glad everyone came along for the fic that shall henceforth be known as "1-800-Eat Ass"


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